


In Your Heart Still Burns

by LadyPickwick



Series: Dragon Age: Inquisition -- Post-Trespasser [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, F/M, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-09-02 03:49:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16779019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyPickwick/pseuds/LadyPickwick
Summary: -Currently working on a better intro (sort of in medias res right now).-Begins several years after the death of Corypheus and Tresspasser DLC.-Characters, character histories, and references to past events are taken from the game, but the present plot is entirely original.-Inquisitor's history deviates from the game and is mostly original.-Inquisitor's name is pronounced, "Cree-ah."-Welcome constructive feedback.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> -Currently working on a better intro (sort of in medias res right now).  
> -Begins several years after the death of Corypheus and Tresspasser DLC.  
> -Characters, character histories, and references to past events are taken from the game, but the present plot is entirely original.  
> -Inquisitor's history deviates from the game and is mostly original.  
> -Inquisitor's name is pronounced, "Cree-ah."  
> -Welcome constructive feedback.

**_I_ **

Cridhe opened the chest at the end of her bed. So many memories captured in a few tangible things. Cornelius’s ledger. The first dagger he ever bought her. She smiled at the thought of her gruff dwarf, the closest person she had ever known as a father. She moved these to the side until she found what she was looking for: her mother’s gown. Her hands trembled slightly as she removed it from the chest and laid it on her bed. She pulled the strings and unfolded the animal pelt that kept her most prized possession safe and hidden. She was met with the soft scents of age and the memory of her mother.

Even the poor light of her room could capture the beauty of the thing. It certainly was not Dalish; no, far too ancient. Her mother had left her this one memento before she vanished. “Ir tel’him, da’len. Vir sumeil irassal ghilar,” had been stitched on a piece of cloth resting on the garment. “I am me again, child. We are close wherever you go.” She had kept the cloth close to her, but it had puzzled her for years. After meeting Solas, Abelas, Mythal, however… these relics of another age, she understood a little better.

Cridhe removed all but her underclothes. She looked at herself in the reflecting glass. She traced the scars across her abdomen and arms; testaments to the years of hardship she had seen. But her eyes fixated on her blackened left hand and forearm and the tendrils of dead magic that extended up to her shoulder. She never exposed this to the public; only those close to her had seen the enchanted limb. In an act of defiance, however, she decided to bare her scar for this anniversary ball. _After all_ , she thought as she stared at it, _let them see the hideous reminder of the near annihilation of their world. It looks no worse than some tattoo._ She smiled ruefully at the whispered uproar it would cause among the Orlesians. Josephine would have a conniption.

Her eyes moved up to her face. There were no lines of age, as there should have been. The years of wear, of pain, of isolation were evident only in her eyes. She had friends, of course, but the pain of losing Solas had been too great to bear. Not a whisper from him in eight years, though she swore he was the shadow in her dreams and her lonely wanderings in the forests.

Coherent thought left her. Tears spilled as she waded through the mire of what-if’s and if-only’s, of words that had lost the brevity of meaning.

Vhenan.

In another life.

Ar lath ma.

A warning knock and the creak of the door below ripped her from her reverie. She deftly wiped the tears before calling, “Yes?”

“My Lady? It is Ellanin. The Lady Ambassador would like to meet with you before your entrance.”

Gods, she was dreading the evening. She detested being the center of such attention.

“Please tell Lady Montilyet that she may come to my quarters in twenty minutes.”

“Yes, my Lady.” The door clanked shut.

Cridhe sighed into her hands. Time ground her down, and she felt the pull to move on. The love she felt for Solas had been intense, brief, and entirely innocent. They kissed but three times, but there were so many unspoken words in those kisses. The passion of them had carried her for just over ten years. She was waning in their memory, however, and reality was persistent.

She shook her head and turned to the gown on her bed. The material was something unknown to her: full of layers yet light and sheer, a barely perceptible cerulean color, and flecked with something like diamonds that caught and reflected every wave of light. She fingered the material then stepped delicately into the dress. She was not known for indulging feminine fashions and was keenly aware of the dress hugging every curve she had. The material spilled out from her upper thighs, pooling at her feet and leaving a small train behind her. The sleeves, which were off the shoulders, came to the middle of her hands and clung like half-finished gloves. She then took the soft Halla leather and wrapped her feet and her slender calves.

She unbound her hair. Her usual ornately plaited hair, ever fashioned in a chignon, poured down her back in soft white waves. For a moment, she was haunted by the ghost of her mother’s visage. Her mother had the same pale skin, same full mouth in a perpetual pout, same white hair, though her mother’s always seemed to glow, Cridhe mused. Her eyes were different, though. Her mother often told her they were her father’s. Large, framed by thick lashes, and ice-blue with the slightest hint of green.

Her fingers nimbly braided two strips of hair that framed her face and bound them behind her head. The final piece of her ensemble was to be a gift from Empress Celine herself. A circlet of Stormheart fashioned to look like Halla horns. Cridhe scrutinized it: exquisitely crafted, beautiful to behold. But it was intended to be a collar, claiming to whom an empire thought she belonged.

She placed it back in its box and tossed it on her desk. She would belong to no one but herself tonight. Even the clan that had been her home for ten years, that took her in after Cornelius died and her mother disappeared, she was never truly a Lavellan.

Cridhe stepped back and stared at the woman before her in the reflecting glass one final time. She decided, with a newfound sense of pride, she would tell Josephine she would be announced as, “Cridhe the Elvhen, of Arlathan.”

She then turned to the Eluvian that loomed by her bed. Slowly, she walked until she stood before it. She placed her unscarred hand on it and felt the familiar magic vibrate with life beneath her fingers.  
  
She drew near, until her breath was cast against the glass. “Solas,” she cautiously whispered.

Suddenly, the glass gave a shudder and faintly glowed its piercing blue light. Cridhe gasped.

At that moment, a great clamor of metal and a moan of ancient wood announced the Lady Ambassador’s entrance.

“Inquisitor, I wanted to go over a last few things before the evening begins.” There was a sigh. “I know he’s a friend, but the Iron Bull—”

An unnatural pause caused Cridhe to turn around. Josephine’s expression was alarming. “What is it, Josephine?”

“My—my—lady!” Josephine managed to sputter between gasps of air. “You—you—look breathtaking! Where did you acquire such a magnificent dress?”

Cridhe narrowed her eyes. “Is it so shocking to see me dressed thusly? I must really look like an urchin most of the time, then.”

“No, no. Oh, please forgive me, Your Worship,” Josephine shook her head dramatically. She stared. “I had no idea your hair was so long. It looks like silk.”

“I had no idea either,” Cridhe agreed, turning back to face her reflection. “I’m not sure I like it.”

“You will be the envy of every Orlesian woman.”

Cridhe cocked her head. “On second thought…,” she trailed off. “You said there were some matters to discuss?” She turned back to face Josephine.

“Yes, of course. The Iron Bull has taken to making rather, er, suggestive remarks to the red-headed female guests. I’ve tried talking to him, but he only listens to you. Also, of the many artists that have featured you as their subjects, one has, um, how shall I put this? You are almost entirely nude as you strike your final blow to Corypheus.”

Cridhe looked quizzical. “Hmm, I don’t recall posing for such a work. I wonder how accurate it is.”

Josephine look scandalized.

“Listen, I care not how this evening goes. I’d much prefer to receive thanks in the form of letters, sent from as far away as possible. Yet here I am, completely unrecognizable to both myself and those closest to me. Do not trouble yourself so, Josephine.”

The ambassador did not appear one iota less stressed, but nodded anyway.

“I do have one, no two, requests.”

“Anything, Inquisitor.”

“I should liked to be announced as ‘Cridhe the Elvhen of Arlathan.”

One eyebrow shot up.

“And I should like it if Commander Rutherford escorted me.”

The other eyebrow shot up, and a suspicious smile soon emerged.

“As you wish, my lady. I’ll have someone fetch Cullen.”

“Thank you, Josephine. I’ll be down soon.”

Cullen’s cheeks flashed scarlet when he was told by one of Josephine’s subordinates that the Inquisitor personally requested him to be her escort this evening. “Maker’s breath,” were the only words the servant could make out.

“Be in Lady Montilyet’s office in fifteen minutes, per her request, Commander.”

Cullen cleared his throat, “Of course.” He suddenly felt very hot and cursed whoever decided on woolen dress uniforms as the Inquisition’s formal attire. The Inquisitor had _personally_ requested him. For her to be on his arm for the entire evening. Well, not entire evening. He had only dared to fanaticize her looking a moment longer at him on his best days, but this? Maker, he hoped he didn’t make a muck of it. He had fallen in love with her within moments of meeting her. Over ten years ago. He shook his head at the rapidity of time’s passing.

He knew, well, he thought he knew, that she was still in love with that cocky elven mage. How, he could not begin to guess. The bastard had broken her heart. Twice. And how Cullen longed to be the one she would allow to mend it.

The fifteen minutes ticked by like eternity to a damned soul. When eternity’s sentence had passed, he all but flew to Lady Montilyet’s office. He opened the door and stopped dead. His heart ceased to beat; his lungs could inhale no air.

Cridhe, standing with her arms wrapped around her thin waist by the fire, turned and smiled exuberantly at him. “Ah! My dear Commander Cullen! Are you ready to feign the most disingenuous of smiles and become charlatans of fanfare?”

“You may close your mouth, Cullen. The woman can don a dress every now and then, you know.” Cassandra could not completely hide her amusement.

Cridhe looked down. “Oh, this old thing? No, really, it’s ancient.”

“Maker’s breath,” were the only words that came from the Commander.

“And mind your own, Cullen. Yes, that’s it. Inhale, exhale. You can’t pass out before you introduce the savior of Thedas to the hundreds of nobles out there.” Varric was deflty taking mental notes so as to accurately describe Cullen’s reaction in his next novel.

Cridhe looked around the room, attempting to not notice her own reaction to Cullen’s reaction to her. The years had ticked by, and his devotion to the Inquisition, to her, were not lost on her. Had things turned out differently, had she heeded Solas when he tried to break things off, she may have very well fallen for Cullen hard and fast. And though Solas had claimed her heart so many years ago, Cullen had claimed more and more of it with each passing year, until he was never far from her thoughts. She shook her head at herself, causing a ripple in the tendrils of her hair that did not go unnoticed by the present company.

She looked around. Here were her most trusted companions, advisors… she stopped. There was but one word for it: lethallen. Friends.

Dorian.

Varric.

Iron Bull.

Cassandra.

Leliana.

Josephine.

Cullen.

Cole.

Vivienne.

Sera.

She smiled in spite of herself.

“I’m not one for commotion and accolades. I look back, sometimes, and am entirely unsure how I ended up here.” She looked down and the floor blurred. She blinked and tears breached the corners of her eyes. “I could not have done this, any of _this_ , the last decade, without any of you. You have challenged me, helped me, grown me. And for fear of sounding like one of the unbelievable heroes in Varric’s books—“

“Hey!” Varric began to take deep offense.

Cridhe disarmed him immediately with a smile, then continued: “I need you to know that if I could truly open the eyes of this pompous and ridiculous lot,” she gestured to the door, “it would not be me that they are honoring tonight, but each of you.”

They were all silent a moment, each one glowing with pride at her praise, but too embarrassed to say anything. Except Dorian.

“You bless us with such words, my dear. But we all know that the real reason you wish they were honoring us is so that you could drink your fill of an artist’s interpretation of a nearly naked Cullen battling corrupt Grey Wardens.”

Every eye darted between Cridhe and Cullen: the latter glowing with such a mixture of horror and ire, he looked to be a heap of burning coals. The former, however, did not miss a beat: “But of course, my perceptive Dorian. Then I would have it hauled to my bed chamber to view at my leisure.” Then she winked at Cullen.

Cullen was utterly undone; he stared wide-eyed at her and was planted firmly to the floor. Laughter exploded and skittered across the stones, pushing everyone out of Josephine’s study; all except Cullen and Cridhe. She drew her hands behind her back and walked slowly, feigning bashfulness, looking down. She stopped just before him, looked up through her long lashes, and cocked a half-smile. “Did I embarrass you too much this time, Commander?”

As he looked at Cridhe, he began to laugh at himself. In the time it took to blink, he realized that she did care for him. After all these years, there was a part of her that had opened up to him, but he had refused to see it because of the shadow of Solas and his own juvenile insecurity. Bless her, she had always been patient with him and his awkward ways. The realization caused such a euphoric relief to overtake him that he replied with uncharacteristic quick and salacious wit: “Not at all. Just know the artist would not have come close to my proper proportions.”

Shock rarely seized Cridhe, but Cullen’s comment took her aback such a degree, his warm, flirtatious expression gave way to mortification. Then she gave such a genuine laugh, a sound not often heard, that caused the essence of her mirth to sparkle in her very skin.

She stepped closer to Cullen until there was naught but a breath between them. Her expression melted into coquettish familiarity, and she whispered, “Well then, my dear Cullen, you have piqued my curiosity.” And to seal his confoundedness, she kissed him faintly on the small place between the jut of his jaw and his neck.

“Now then,” she attempted to resume her disciplined tone, but it wavered noticeably, “shall we go, Commander?” She moved to his side and took hold of his arm.

Cullen felt every ounce of his strength, self-control, and professional duty struggle against his heart, mind, and body’s one true desire that her kiss galvanized. His breath went ragged, “Um, yes, Your Worship.”

She stopped once more, turning to face him and looked intently into his eyes. “I’m going to insist upon this right now, Cullen. From this point forward, I want you to call me ‘Cridhe.’ No title. We are friends. Familiar. And,” she looked down, surprised by her own sudden shyness, “I would prefer to be more familiar with one another.” She glanced up at him. “More familiar than we are now.”

For the first time that since they had made acquaintance, Cullen looked into Cridhe’s eyes. She was surprised by what she found: eyes the color of hard oak, softened by sweet flecks of honey. His gaze was intense, arresting. Pinpricks tickled the back of her neck, and her usual composure faltered. He leaned in…

“Inquist—oh!” Josephine looked scandalized for the second time that evening. “Um, My Lady, it’s time to begin the processional.”

Josephine averted her eyes under Cridhe’s hot stare. Cullen never took his eyes from Cridhe. “Yes, yes. Well, this is promising. Those damnable royals are on roll for ruining the evening, aren’t they? We’ll be out in just a moment, Josephine.”

Cridhe sighed and put her forehead against Cullen’s chest to compose herself. She was a whirl of giddiness, annoyance, and something she had not felt since meeting Solas.

“Alright, Cullen. Shall we?”

He paused, clearly unsure if she meant to leave or kiss.

Ever perceptible, Cridhe grinned and leaned close to his ear, “We can sooner attend to what Josephine interrupted if we get this ridiculous gathering over with.”

Cullen’s mind worked too fast, and it made him uncomfortable in his uniform. He mustn’t foul up being the escort for the Inquisitor, must keep keen and close watch on all matters of security, and attempt to trudge through the evening to finally reap the sowings of his wildest dreams. He stood straighter, nodded, and held out his arm. “My—Cridhe,” he blurted.

“Oh, ‘my Cridhe.’ I do like that, Cullen.” She winked again and affectionately squeezed his arm.

“Maker’s breath,” was all he could reply, and they made their way to the staging area in perfect step.

In the Great Hall, light flooded from enchanted chandeliers. Orlesian masks glinted sharply, almost as sharp as the gazes that peered from them. Elves, proudly wearing their traditional garb, cast haughty, sideways glances at the Orlesians. Dwarves guffawed and cursed loudly, to the chagrin of all.

Guests reluctantly broke their circles at the sound of the herald’s trumpet. “Lady Josephine Montilyet; ambassador of the Inquisition and Antiva.”

Josephine gave a dainty cough and nodded her acknowledgment to the polite applause given. “Thank you. My esteemed ladies and gentlemen; humans, elves, and dwarves: we are here tonight to honor a woman who will forever have the gratitude of Thedas. Ten years ago, this very day, she slew the greatest enemy our world has known. She has worn the mantle of outcast, military leader, judge, diplomat, and savior; and she has borne them all with humility, wisdom, and discipline seasoned with humor.

“She carries the responsibilities of the entire world on her shoulders, and bears the scars of the cost of that responsibility. She united warring nations; mended a nation wrought with civil war”—the hall reverberated with the low, offended grumble of Orlesians—“and has been a champion of equality for all.

“It is my deepest honor and pleasure to present to you our Inquisitor, Cridhe the Elvhen, of Arlathan.”

The appalled gasps were drowned out by applause and the unmistakable cheers of elves. Cridhe emerged with Cullen, a glasslike smile on her face. Through her teeth she said, “Gods, this is absurd.”

Cullen encouraged her, “Every word Josephine said is true, Cridhe. We are all grateful to you and for you.” She glanced at him. “Some more so than others,” he added then pushed her forward.

Before responding, Cridhe surveyed the room for several moments. Bodies shifted uncomfortably under gaze. She wanted them to be as uncomfortable as she was.

Then her voice rang out, clear and strong, with an almost imperceptible hint of insolence: “Andaran atish’an. Ar mirthadra. Enter this place in peace, welcomed guests. I am, indeed, honored by your presence and this beautiful ball. I have little to say; you have lived the horrors that the Inquisition has fought to defeat. In that way, you are a part of the Inquisition: you are our purpose, our reason for fighting.

“You would honor me greatly by venerating those who have been at my side since the birth of this age’s Inquisition. For without them, Corypheus would have surely triumphed. I would have them come forward.

“Divine Victoria, Vivenne. Dorian of House Pavus, Ambassador of the Tevinter Imperium. The Iron Bull and the Chargers. Commander Cullen Rutherford. Cassandra Pentaghast. Viscount Varric Tethras. Ambassador Josephine Montilyet. Leliana. Sera. Cole.” Each person walked forward as Cridhe said their name.

“This banquet is more deserving of them in the seat of honor than myself. No Inquisitor could have succeeded in every realm of responsibility without the insight, support, and encouragement of these people. Honor them, and you will honor me.” Cridhe gave a low bow to her friends. Applause, once again, rang through the hall with a particular mixture of gratitude and obligation.

“Now that the great oratory feats have been seen to, please enjoy yourselves. Feast, dance, celebrate the death of Corypheus!” Cheers erupted, more from the prospect of food and revelry than of the demise of a long dead foe. The lines of guests broke and pooled.

Cridhe felt a wave of relief. The first unbearable hurdle had been overcome. Now to replenish her strength with Dandelion Wine and hearth cakes, and maybe a petit four or two, before the onslaught of socializing began.

Cullen sat down next to Varric, unable to concentrate on food or anything else, save for security. Something was beginning to unsettle him.

“Well, Curly, how are you holding up? Is your dream come true too much to handle?” Varric took a swig of lager.

Cullen smiled. “Varric, you can run me through with your quips, but they’re not going to phase me tonight. You’re right, though,” he qualified, “She is stunning, isn’t she?”

Both men admired the Inquisitor. Cridhe was nodding and smiling at a trio of elderly Fereldan dukes, but he knew her mind was elsewhere. She had honed the skill of looking interested years ago.

“You’re the envy of every man here, tonight. Well, maybe except for Dorian. I include myself in that lot of jealous male onlookers. She’s always been easy on the eyes, but femininity becomes her. I never thought Bianca would have need to be worried…” Varric paused to see if he was pushing the right buttons. Cullen wasn’t taking the bait.

“See? There you go again looking all perturbed when you should be planning the way you’re going to woo Cridhe. What is it?”

Cullen was silent a moment, gauging if he was being touchy or if something truly was amiss. Then he nodded to the southeast corner of the Great Hall, near the door that led to the gardens. “You see that man over there? The elf with plaited hair going down the middle, shaved on either side? I’ve never seen one don a mask as that. He’s been keeping to the shadows all night, too.”

Varric looked the man over. The mask was definitely unique. Whereas most Orlesians, including elves, wore masks that reflected chiseled human features, this mask was the head and upper jaw of a wolf. “Interesting, indeed. Perhaps he’s an ambassador from north of the Free Marches? They’re an odd bunch.”

“Hmm. He’s dressed in all black, as if to hide in the shadows better. He’s also not talked to a soul. He’s just been sitting there, staring.” Cullen’s voice took on a possessive edge.

Varric suddenly felt disconcerted. Something in the elf’s demeanor reminded him of someone. He took another draught of lager, and, with his usual nonchalance, replied, “Well, if he’s that worrisome, send someone to watch him. You’re the Inquisitor’s escort, Curly. And I believe she’s looking for you.”

Cullen turned to see Cridhe eyeing him, leaving him no doubt of her plea to be rescued from the masses. He gave one cautionary look in the direction of the stranger, but saw he had vanished. He waved down one of his soldiers, gave him a thorough description, orders to tail the elf, and then dismissed him. He was going to enjoy the company of the woman he loved, and no threat would touch her with him at her side.

Cridhe excused herself and Cullen from a snide gaggle of duchesses and marquises who, Cridhe believed, were much more interested in the Commander than her.

“My dear noblewomen,” she cooed, “The Commander and I are utterly famished! Please forgive us this necessary parting for refreshments. Do enjoy the dance; I believe I hear the tuning of strings.”

“Ah! Parting fills our hearts with regret, but yes, off we must go,” crooned Marquise Du Londe, a thin woman with impossibly tight ringlets framing her embellished mask. “Commander, we sincerely hope you will grace us each with a dance.” There was an unmistakable lilt of salaciousness that laced her voice.

Cullen coughed, unused to such forward propositions. “Um, perhaps, Marquise. This colder weather has aggravated an old war wound, and I’m afraid dancing is rather uncomfortable.”

“Oooh, such a pity! Well, perhaps we can ease that wound another way.” She leaned in close to Cullen to say this, but made her voice loud enough to be heard by all.

“Yes, with a nice, hot bath, _alone_ , to ease his pain,” Cridhe chimed, her voice dripping with challenge, but her face the very image of cordiality.

As she turned to leave with Cullen, her face transformed into utter disgust. “The nerve of that woman. All of them. Do you grow tired of their all but articulate invitations to their beds?”

Cullen was grinning down at her.

“Oh, should I go back and schedule a time for her to visit you?” Cridhe asked, her voice heated with uncharacteristic jealousy.

“Not at all. I just think this side of you is endearing.”

Cridhe’s cheeks warmed. “I’m sorry. Those types of women bring out the absolute worst in me. Their vapidity is infuriating.” She massaged her temples.

Cullen pulled her into a dark corner. He took her hands away from her face and kissed the palms, lingering on her scarred hand. They said nothing, caught up in a silence pregnant with rehearsed words that would never be spoken.

Finally, Cullen whispered, “You have but to say the word, and I’ll take you from here.”

Cridhe smiled and sighed. “Thank you, my dear Cullen. But no, I suppose I should stay. I’m done with these petty conversations, stares at my arm and ears. Let us go and spend time with our true friends.”

Cullen nodded, and squeezed her hand before letting go.

The stranger roved in the shadows, which grew as the enchanted light gave way to the natural glow of candle and firelight. He had not spoken a word to anyone; he merely kept his gaze on Cridhe for the entirety of the evening. She was breathtaking, luminescent; as if the brightest star in the heavens took Elvhen form. The corners of his mouth quietly upturned into a smile for a moment, then faded back into his frown.

The soft ebb of time had claimed her in some ways; most notably the in the way she seemed to be drawn to the Commander. Her hand fluttered in conversation, but somehow managed to always brush him.

A sudden surge of animosity, for this man and himself, caught his breath. He made no move, save for a slight tightening of his fists. He mildly wondered if she knew of the beauty she possessed and relaxed again.

Her hair, glowing white, cascaded in ripples of loose curls down her back. Her dress was simple, without the pomp of the Orlesians or Fereldans, and she bested them all. He could see, even from this distance, her long, slender legs disappear into the dress only at her thighs. The Halla leather that hugged up her calves was expertly braided. Even with the ebony of her scarred arm, she looked like the ancient Elvhen of Arlathan. Her title was perfectly chosen, and his chest swelled with pride. She was, indeed, Arlathenian, and she would be his perfect equal.

The tide of guests that had flooded the Great Hall gradually began to subside. Only the Inquisitor’s tight circle, guests who were heavy or immobile with drink, and guests too proud to leave before the last light was snuffed remained.

At a banquet table, each of the Inquisition’s leaders sat sipping various brews and nibbled at food, regaling each other with past glories and favorite memories.

“Boss, I bet you still have a dagger stuck up somewhere in those skirts,” thundered Iron Bull.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Cridhe responded.

“Is that an offer?”

Cridhe shook her head in exasperation. “No, Bull, it is not. I'm surprised at you; I’m not redheaded.”  
  
“There are always exceptions to the rules.” Iron Bull winked at Cridhe. “But I get it, Tal-Vashoth aren’t your thing. Commanders are.” Then he winked at Cullen.

“Do hurry and consummate this… whatever this is,” Dorian chimed, flourishing his hand between Cridhe and Cullen. “The sexual tension is suffocating.”

As usual, there was a mixture of laughter and blushes.

“Inquisitor, tell us something about yourself. Something I might be able to use in my present work,” Varric inquired.

“Oh, yes, please, Your Worship!” Josephine said through a mouthful of petit four. She loved information as much as Leliana.

Cridhe let the Dandelion Wine pierce her tongue before she swallowed and answered. “Hmm… I was raised by a dwarf.”

“No! You mean, you’ve been holding out on me? We could have been singing some of those ancient ballads and getting drunk on the good ol’ days,” Varric exclaimed, his sarcasm tinged with some sense of newfound deference for Cridhe.

Cridhe nodded. “Mmm-hmm. His name was Cornelius, a topside—obviously—merchant. Oh, how I loved that man. As wont to cuddle as a bear in a trap, but he loved me like a daughter.” She gazed off in the distance, vision blurring with the salt of memory.

“Well don’t end there! That’s a great way to start a story, but it’s poor taste to leave your audience with no cause as to how you came to be in the care of a dwarf,” Varric urged.

Cridhe was silent a moment, a bemused expression shrouding her face. She had never told anyone the full truth of her origin; mostly because she did not know herself. Yet through the years, she had pieced enough information, along with inexplicable intuition, some of the gaps. She decided to throw caution to the wind and regale her friends with what she thought was a private, but fairly boring story.

“Do tell us, Inquisitor. For all my digging, I could never find anything on you, even from Clan Lavellan,” Leliana chimed in.

“Alright,” Cridhe agreed. “Well, Leliana, the reason you couldn’t find much on me is that I was not a true Lavellan. They were kind enough to bring me in, to give me a home, but I was not one of them. That is why I had white vallaslin, before Solas removed it. It meant I was a, a sort of ghost to the Dalish.”  
  
She paused, raking through memories shallowly buried in her mind. “My earliest memories were of the forest and my mother. I’ve found that as my looks have matured over the years, I look a lot like her. I never met my father; the only thing I know of him is that I have his eyes and he was a great mage.

“Even now, I remember my mother and I never quite belonged to each other. She was childlike, only ever speaking the Ancient form of Elvhen—something I realized much later in life. She was always searching for something. ‘A way home,’ she would say. I never understood what that meant; the forest was my home.

“She possessed some level of magic, which I inherited, too. But I much prefer the life of a rogue and wielding bows and daggers than a staff,” she gave the last bit of information for Cullen’s benefit.

“Anyway, when I was about four years old, Cornelius came upon me. My mother was off somewhere, as usual. Even at that age, I can still remember hearing, ‘By the ancestors, what in the actual hell are you doing here?!’ in the thickest accent I’ve ever heard. His brogue made me laugh, and I’m quite sure he thought he had had too stout a drink and was seeing forest spirits.” She laughed.

“Eventually, my mother came upon us. I think he expected her to show some semblance of concern, but she acted as if he had been part of our lives since the first. Cornelius was always wary of my mother; thought she was some sort of bad omen or a spook. But he nursed her when she fell ill and protected us both as if we were his own.

“When I turned eleven, my mother became gravely ill; of no physical malady we could tell, but looking back, I think she was succumbing to a broken heart. She had grown weary of searching for ‘home,’ wherever that was, in vain.

“For a year this went on. During this time, she seemed to have moments of clarity, a brief suspension of this childlike mentality, and she told me that when she was early in her pregnancy with me, she fell into a deep and terrifying sleep. When she awoke, the entire world had changed. My father was gone, the world had gone wild, and she was alone. She said she woke up and began searching for her home. She eventually birthed me, in the forest, and simply continued her search.”

Cridhe paused for a moment, lost in the ghost of her childhood. She had an epiphany. “Huh. I never realized how true my mother’s name was: Ràna,” she said to herself.

Everyone looked at her, questioningly.

“It means, ‘wanderer.’ I never met anyone who wandered the earth as well as she.

“Anyway,” Cridhe began again, “the day before I turned twelve, she disappeared. Vanished. She left me this dress; in fact, she said it was what she had awoken in when she found herself alone. But she stored it away; I think to dim the pain of being so far from where we were from. And on it, she left a note, but that is just for me to know what it says.” She smiled ruefully.

“‘Heart,’” Cole said suddenly.

Everyone turned.

“What?” asked Cridhe.

“Your name. That’s what it means, ‘heart.’

“‘She is our heart.’ Quiet tears, fear, awe of beauty and pangs of grief. ‘I must find it. I must find my way home for her.’”

Fury and heartache passed over Cridhe’s face like a solitary roll of thunder then went blank. “Not now, Cole,” she whispered.

He was gone when everyone turned back to him.

“How heartbreaking,” Josephine sighed, tears filling her eyes.

Cridhe returned from Cole’s disturbance. She cleared her throat. “I mean, I loved her, I think. She was my mother in title, but I never knew what a mother truly was. When she vanished, I remember feeling this relief: I could stay. I was weary of wandering. I never knew this ‘home,’ so to stay with Cornelius meant a great deal to me. Unfortunately, he was run through by bandits a scant month later. He died protecting me.”

She crossed her arms. “Killed the whole damnable lot of them,” she muttered, more for the benefit of Cornelius’s memory than anyone present.

“It was about six months later that some scouts from Clan Lavellan found me; took me in to meet their Keeper. She was a gentle soul; a quiet, calm spirit that I took to immediately. People were suspicious of me. It was by their insistence that I had the white vallaslin, I did not want it at all, but the Keeper was convinced that if I were, in fact, some ill omen, the sign of the Gods on my face would cancel it out.

“That was when I was thirteen. I stayed with them for ten years, hunting and scouting. But I never belonged. That was why I volunteered to spy at the Conclave. Less from curiosity and more from a desire to leave.”

All eyes were on her. The weight of their stares caused Cridhe to shift uncomfortably. She took a long draught of wine.

“And that brings us to date.”

The Inquisition members stared into their cups, reflecting on this bit of information. Their realization of the mystery and fragility of their leader made them acutely aware of her vulnerability and accessibility. She was misfit like each of them. Despite the awareness of Cridhe’s diminishing invincibility, each member loved her all the more for her humble beginnings.

Dorian was the first to perk up. “Ah, well.” He suddenly lost his cynical verve. “Here you are, my dear Inquisitor. And here we are: whether at the whim of fate or some other higher power, each has been thrust into this moment. And, for good or ill, we have found camaraderie.”

He was silent a moment, to the great shock of everyone present.

“And to that, I will happily raise my glass.”

“Hear, hear! Cheers!” A cup went up for every hand present.

Every mouth drank fully, enjoying both drink and newfound appreciation for each other.

After a moment, Varric spoke. “So, Inquisitor. Since you were raised by a dwarf, know any good dwarven ballads?”

Cridhe smiled broadly. “Why, of course, Varric! My favorite was always ‘Beregrand the Bold.’”

Varric’s eyes doubled in size, and he spat out his ale. “You’re joking! That’s always been _my_ favorite! No one’s ever heard of it! And I’m fond of the fact that it thumbs its nose at those feudal-happy asses in Orzammar.”

Cridhe chuckled. “Cornelius sang it to me every night as a lullaby.”

“Good man,” Varric grinned. “Would you, uh, care to sing it with me?”

“What, now?” Cridhe looked incredulous.

“Why not? You’ve killed arch-demon Tevinters and survived the Orlesian Court. Surely singing in front of these goons doesn’t compare to those feats.”

“You’d be surprised,” Cridhe muttered. She thought a moment, drank a long draught of wine, and replied, “Well, why not, indeed? I only harmonize, though.”

“Fine by me. I don’t have a bad range.”

Cassandra snorted. “If you sing as well as you shoot that crossbow, our ears will have irreversible damage.”

Varric rolled his eyes then cleared his throat. He tapped the rhythm a few beats, and they began to sing:

_The burning sun drew high_

_When bold Beregrand appeared_

_With judgment found, exile nigh_

_He thus met the sky and sneered_

_King-Killer, bid farewell_

_Your sin’s too great_

_Your end’s foretold_

_Above the earth awaits your fate_

_Curse your sharing_

_The Land of Men will destroy us all_

_Curse your daring_

_May the stone purge you of your gall_

_King-Killer, bid farewell_

_Your sin’s too great_

_Your end’s foretold_

_Beneath the stars, await your fate_

Iron Bull laughed and smacked the table. Cassandra openly gaped. Leliana and Josephine exchanged incredulous glances. Cullen’s gaze at Cridhe melted into utter devotion.

The song’s lyrics and minor key induced foreboding chills, but Varric’s tenor and Cridhe’s harmonizing rounded each note in perfect pitch. They smiled broadly and bowed their heads to each other in recognition.

“Why, Inquisitor, I believe we should start a traveling act,” Varric pulled out a pipe and lit it.

“Indeed, Varric. I think I’d rather like that,” Cridhe giggled.

“I’ve the most glorious idea!” Dorian cried.

All turned to look at him. “You’ve proven you’re a lady of talent time and time again, my dear Cridhe, but there yet remains one test.”

She furrowed her brow. “Go on, Dorian.”

“The art of dance.” Dorian smile intensified as Cridhe looked shaken.

“I propose,” he continued, “we have our lovely musicians take this very melody and tune it to a medley in the styles our respective homelands to test your knowledge of culture and dance. What say you, my dear?” Dorian’s voice was as sweet as honey and sharp as vinegar.

Cridhe narrowed her eyes and smiled wickedly. “Musicians?”

The low, repetitive music that had been playing suddenly stopped.

“Y-yes, my Lady Inquisitor?” The lead violinist sounded as if he may have offended Andraste herself.

“Did you hear my lord Pavus’s request?”

“Y-Yes, my Lady Inquisitor.”

“Then please begin. A Free Marches interpretation to start, if you don’t mind,” she said sweetly. “Varric? Will you do me the honor of first dance?”

Varric sputtered on his pipe smoke. “You want to dance with _me?_ I’m flattered. But know I’m prone to stepping on toes.” He rose and took Cridhe’s hand.

Varric bowed and Cridhe curtseyed. She smiled at how small her hand looked in Varric’s square paw; it made her wistful for days long past and how much she missed Cornelius.

“So tell me, Inquisitor,” Varric began. “When are you and Curly going to make this official?”

Cridhe gasped in mock innocence. “Whatever do you mean, Varric?”

“Oh, you know exactly what I mean. Look at him,” Varric nodded toward Cullen as he and Cridhe passed around each other, hands behind their backs.

Cullen’s eyes never moved from Cridhe’s form. He smiled when they caught each other’s gaze.

Varric’s voice took on an edge that was not in keeping with his usual demeanor. “Inquisitor,” he began. “Cridhe, that man loves you more than life itself. Has since before Corypheus destroyed Haven.”

Cridhe cast her eyes down. “I know, Varric.”

He continued. “I understand the stubbornness of love. I’ve never gotten over Bianca, and she’s been married for years.” He shook his head before continuing. “Don’t lose one of the greatest things you could know for one of the greatest things you used to know. Chuckles isn’t coming back.” He glanced up in time to see her wince.

She nodded. “I know this, too, Varric.”

“The man defies understanding, if you don’t mind my saying. Eight years, _eight years_ of agents and spying and Leliana, and not a whisper closer of finding out anything.” He stopped.

“Just,” Varric began again, his voice softer, “give Curly a chance. He would follow you to the ends of the earth instead of running there, away from you.”

Cridhe smiled wistfully at Varric. “I understand, my friend. Thank you, as always, for your wisdom.”

Varric laughed deeply. “Wisdom is not something often attributed to me. I will treasure that compliment until I’m in the grave, Inquisitor.”

The song began to end the first part of the medley, and Varric and Cridhe parted.

The next variation began in the unmistakable faster-paced, sultry style of Tevinter, and Dorian swooped in, grabbed Cridhe by the waist, and sent her spinning into a series of pirouettes.

She laughed gleefully, like a child.

Dorian smiled broadly, proud of his accomplishment at making his closest of friends forget her drudgeries. “My dear Cridhe, if only I was partial to women, I would have wooed you years ago.”  
  
They swiveled their hips in time to the beat, clapping on the proper beats.

“I’ve no doubt you would have, Dorian, especially if you had danced like this. Ah, in another life,” she side, her face flushed and eyes bright.

“In another life,” Dorian echoed.

They danced in that sort of joie de vivre that can only be experienced with the best of friends, and Cridhe fell further into the arms of revelry.

Once again, the song began to change, and Dorian parted.

“Alright, Bull! Your turn!” Cridhe called.

The music suddenly halted.

Iron Bull scowled at the band. “Have something against Qunari?” he threatened.

“N-n-no, of course, n-not!” stammered the violinist. “It’s j-just th-that…”

“Oh, right! We don’t dance!” Iron Bull thundered with laughter. His grand joke received several rounds of applause.

“A Fereldan dance, then!” Cridhe laughed and turned to Cullen.

Cullen rose and walked over, quiet as ever. He pulled Cridhe close.

Their dance held less conversation, but was full of heavy gazes. Cullen lost any remaining bashfulness as he laced his fingers through Cridhe’s with one hand and took her waist with the other.

For the first time in what seemed like a small eternity, Cridhe felt weightless. Cullen’s eyes never left hers. She traced his scar with a delicate finger, and began to lean in to kiss him when the tune changed once more.

He smiled deeply, knowingly. Then he took her hands and kissed them both, never breaking her gaze, and sent her twirling into the sound of the elves, heavy with drums and flutes.

This time, she was with none but herself. Her feet stamped and skipped, cross-keyed and twisted. With arms straight down at her sides, she was the picture of precision and technique.

A line of elves formed behind her, spreading out with her as the point. Their step dancing made the great hall come to life, full of a perfectly in-time primal beat. More guests suddenly appeared, brought out by the commanding sound.

The stranger felt the prick of anticipation as he watched Cridhe spin into flawless step. She smiled gaily, closing her eyes and letting her body respond to the potent beat. His purpose here had been to merely watch her, to drink in one last draught of her being, her voice, her countenance. But he was captive to a desire long unfulfilled, and he found himself rising to meet her.

The breathy crescendo of the flute, like a piper, led him to weave in and out of the guests, edging closer to the front of the audience. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he kept his movement slow and unhurried, but each step was purposeful. His eyes never left Cridhe.

He became suddenly aware of a guard, and as the guard went to grab him, he evaded him entirely, and jumped into perfect step at Cridhe’s side.

The song crescendoed into a higher key and faster tempo, just as the masked elf appeared. Though surprised, Cridhe smiled widely and welcomingly at her new partner. She noticed, in a scant second, his movements were much more practiced than the elves behind her.

He grabbed her hand, and they held for a moment, feet in perfect rhythm and step. When the music began a new measure, he suddenly spun her, beginning an entirely new dance, separate from the other elves. He grabbed her hips with both hands. They faced each other for a moment, and Cridhe caught the devilish smile and bright look in the eyes behind the mask.

She felt herself compelled to follow each new movement he made. Their dance was familiar, full of urgency and yearning. Cridhe knew the steps because she had fell into them over ten years ago. Realization was beginning to dawn, but denial was casting its long shadow.

The elf spun her again, hands still on her hips, this time facing away from him. He moved them in a circle, their bodies so close as to touch every curve. As she faced away, he closed his eyes and breathed in the perfume of her hair. His eyes pricked with memory and longing.

The song at last slowed to the final movement, and he let go of her hips and took her hands. He walked her in a circle, falling back in line with the other elven couples. They locked eyes, and the look in Cridhe’s was one of sorrow and disbelief.

He spun her around one last time, slowly, and let his arms fully embrace her one last time. He leaned in and whispered in her ear, “Ar lath ma, vhenan. Sul melanada.”

Then he vanished.

“By the Maker, who _is_ that elf?” Dorian inquired, fanning himself.

Cullen swallowed hard, attempting to keep fury and fear manageable, but made no reply.

“Looks like you might have some competition after all, Commander,” prodded Bull. “Damn.”

Varric cast a concerned glance at Cullen before returning to stare at the elf dancing with Cridhe. _This is not good,_ he thought. His eyes traced along the wall until he found the spot where he kept Bianca.

Josephine’s eyes were as wide as her mouth was agape, her head slowly shaking in amazement.

Leliana’s eyebrows were noticeably higher as she stared at the two elves dancing. “Who is he, indeed,” she whispered to herself.

They stared incredulously as Cridhe seemed to be an entirely different person. Her face lost its joviality and seemed to be straining to keep composure. Something was not right.

Cullen was the first to act. As the song began to reach the end, he stood and began to walk briskly toward Cridhe and the elf. He noticed the elf whispered something to Cridhe, and she collapsed to her knees, as if she had lost all strength. Then the elf vanished.

Cullen broke into a sprint the last few feet, fearing Cridhe had been enchanted in some way. “Cridhe!” he cried as he fell by her side.

She stared, wide-eyed at her hands, whispering in Elvhen to herself, unaware of anyone or anything.

“Cridhe!” Cullen tried again. Still, she made no gesture of acknowledgement.

“She’s enchanted!” Cullen cried at the group.

Dorian rushed over. Cole appeared suddenly.

“She’s not enchanted,” Cole said matter-of-factly. “She’s…”

“What, Cole? Out with it!” Cullen demanded.

“She’s in shock. She knows who that man was. The masked elf,” Cole clarified.

“I’m-I’m fine,” Cridhe said, suddenly and faintly.

Cullen edged toward her, tenderly grasping her hands. “Look at me.”

Cridhe looked up. She looked no worse for wear, save a bewildered look in her eyes and a faint pallor.

“I need to go to my chambers,” she said softly, but she was regaining some of her composure.

“Cullen, please escort me,” she requested, then quietly she added, “I don’t believe I have the strength to make it there myself.”

His concern intensifying, Cullen merely nodded in reply. “Give me a moment.”

He called several guards over. “I want you to scour every inch of Skyhold as though Corypheus has snuck in. I want four guards at every door of the Inquisitor’s chambers, and two at every vantage point that has a clear view of her tower’s windows. If you see so much as shadow flutter or a leaf fall, I want to know about it _immediately._ ”

“Yes, Commander,” they replied in unison then hastened to tend to their orders.

“Cullen, I can’t find anything wrong with her, magically. She’s unharmed, for all intents and purposes,” Dorian whispered.

Cullen nodded, but he was not reassured. Cridhe attempted to stand, but swayed with the effort. He gently scooped her into his arms and resolutely walked to her chambers.

The entire Inquisition stared after them, stunned into silence by the elven apparition and his effect on the Inquisitor. They began to fear the worst.


	2. Chapter 2

**_II_ **

Cullen climbed the stairs to Cridhe’s inner chambers. When he reached her bed, she seemed to have somehow grown frailer in his arms. She had tucked her head under his chin, and he could feel her breath against his neck. He didn’t want to let her go.

“Cullen, I need to be alone,” she began and unfolded herself from his embrace.

“No, Cridhe. Not until I find out where that elf went,” his voice had taken on an uncharacteristic hardness.

“You must leave me, Cullen,” she returned, her voice firmer. “Now.”

He stared at her. Was this the same woman who had been so vulnerable with him only an hour before? He strained to keep any sort of selfishness from his thoughts, but he was failing. He was beginning to feel as though he had misplaced his hopes yet again.

His jaw involuntarily clenched to soothe the stinging in his eyes. “As you wish, Inquisitor,” he said thinly and turned to go.

Cridhe shot out her hand and grabbed him. “Wait.”

She cursed the pain she saw in his eyes, knowing what hurt she had caused him. “Please understand. I must… I must make sense of this.”

He nodded, hesitantly, and turned to go once more.

She captured his hand. “I will send for _you_ when I’ve recovered.” And she kissed his palm.

He touched her face, caressing her jaw with a calloused thumb. He memorized the feel of her soft skin, the warmth of her cheek. He doubted he would have a moment like this with her ever again.

The moment suddenly compelled him and he knelt before her. He stared up into her fresh blue-green eyes, swam in their bright depths. He pushed himself up and kissed her. Softly, without the urgency he so keenly felt. They melded into one another, and for a moment, his hope rekindled.

And as quickly as it happened, it ended.

He hesitated one last time then made his way down the steps and out to the great hall.

Alone, now, even the crackle of the fire sounded hollow. She stared at the flames, the glow going in and out of focus, until her eyes watered.

At last, she stood. Cridhe walked to the open door to the balcony that faced away from Skyhold’s entrance. She stared out into the darkness, the snow illuminated pale blue from the light of the moon. She felt spent, racked with contradictory panic and relief. She bowed her head and sighed.

Cridhe felt the shadows shift behind her, and she tensed. The shadows settled once more. She raised her head, but did not look behind her. She took a steadying breath and said, “Solas.”

But no answer was given. The shadows tensed once again, poised and anticipating, but there was no movement.

Cridhe sighed and sat down, one knee crossed under her and one knee bent, so that she rested her head against her bent knee. She soon felt it grow damp with tears. She tried again.

“Solas, please. Say something. Anything,” she pleaded, her voice cracking.

There was a rustle, an inhalation of breath, but still no response.

Cridhe shook her head in confusion. Her resolve broke, and the tears flowed hard and freely. “I don’t understand. Why would you appear like that?” she questioned the darkness.

“Some dashing stranger? A reminder of your once expressed love? And now, we have this moment alone, and you refuse to answer me,” her voice cracked on another sob.

She could not bear to turn and look. Every sense told her that Solas was there, just a breath behind her, but fear that she was talking to his phantom yet again kept her from turning around.

Her shoulders shook, quietly. She rallied and tried again. “I won’t ask about your plans, if that’s your concern. I just,” she whispered, “I just want to see your face.”

And still there was no response.

Solas watched from the shadows of the balcony as Cullen laid Cridhe on her bed. He heard their words clearly enough, but their kiss was too much for him to bear. He didn’t know which was worse: Cridhe in the arms of another or his own self-loathing. The pain seared behind his eyes and tears flowed down his pointed chin.

He watched as Cullen left, and Cridhe stared off into space. Suddenly, she got up and moved to the opposite balcony. Her beauty was magnified by the moonlight, and he was nearly undone. She bowed her head, and softly, he began to approach her.

Cridhe heard him; he knew she heard him, and he stopped. He held his breath, cursing his own weakness for her, and waited for her to turn around, but she did not. She continued to stare into the night. He thought himself safe, but then she said his name.

“Solas.”

Still, he made no movement. If he said anything to her, his waning resolve would come completely unraveled.

He watched as she sat down, her frame folding in on itself. He shook his head “no.” He could not bear to watch his own sin suffocate the only love he had ever known in his life. Yet he could not bear to leave.

Cridhe tried again, pleading and sobbing, yet she never turned around.

His aching for her turned into outright stabbing. He reached out, felt the whisper of her fine hair on his fingertips, but he pulled back.

Pride kept him from revealing himself. He had committed to righting his ancient wrong, of resurrecting the world of the Elvhen. He chided himself for having ever let himself fall for anyone, especially Cridhe. And after all this time, after years of lying to her while in the Inquisition, then using her and breaking her heart in the incident with the Qunari, and eight years of silence, she had carried on in her hope and love for him.

For the first time in his long life, Solas realized his cowardice.

He quietly turned back to the Eluvian by her bed, and as he stepped through, he cursed his name.

The light of dawn broke on the unmoved figure of Cridhe. She still clutched her knee in support. Her white hair spilled around her like a silken shawl, and her dress pooled around her bent body.

Outwardly, she was perfectly still, but internally, she was raging. She was suspended in that state which only grief can cause. Her love for Solas had survived on the memory of a few passionate kisses, whispered words of love, and hope—Gods, the _hope!_ —of someday seeing him again, whether in waking life or in dreams, of changing his heart and his mind.

And now that love was dying. Solas’s refusal to reveal himself was her love’s death knell, and it was making its last stand. Cridhe’s mind was such a tempest of hopeful “what if’s” and “if only’s” that the day passed into night without her knowledge.

And the night turned to dawn once more.

On the morning of the third day, her hopes dead and turning to dust, Cridhe stood at last.

Her tired, unused limbs cracked as she stood to her full height. Her eyes were red, having spent all their tears that had been stored up for a lifetime of unrealized and unreturned love. She moved, as if in a trance, slowly, measuredly until she stood before the Eluvian.

For several moments, she stared at it, as if she had never before seen one in her life. Its blue light flickered, and its surface undulated like water. The magic in it had not waxed or waned, but merely reverberated with life.

Cridhe placed her hands on the surface, relishing the coolness, then placed her lips to the surface. She knew she did not possess enough magical power to push her way through, but she was confident she knew how to break it.

“Solas,” she spoke into the liquid surface, her voice husky from disuse. “I have loved you with an intensity I cannot begin to understand. My love has lived on memories of you, dreams of you, of searching for you.

“You call me ‘ma vhenan,’ your heart, and yet you rend mine in two.

“Ma harel lasa! Ma’lathbora viran*,” she groaned. The silence echoed after her declaration. She had refused to say it for so long, for fear of making it true. Now, though, she said it because it was the truth. Her anger stirred at the realization of her folly, so her thoughts turned to his professed mission, of once more saving the elvhen through destruction.

“Ma banal las halamshir var vhen! Fra ghilan’him banal’vhen. Dirthara-ma†,” her fury spewed forth, broken free after years of being muzzled. Her tears broke anew, but her voice did not falter.

“Go, then. Next we meet, it shall be as enemies. Farewell, Solas.”

Cridhe pushed with all her strength and brokenness into the face of the Eluvian, drew in a deep and ragged breath, and screamed.

A great cracking sound began to emanate from the Eluvian, terrible and sharp, like ancient crystals being torn asunder. After she had spent every ounce of her remaining strength, the Eluvian’s blue light flashed like lightning, then vanished. Its liquid surface roared out, like the crashing of a great wave, then was sucked back in. Cridhe was hurled backwards by the force, and then the Eluvian was still, cracked down the middle.

Solas languished in the Eluvian Crossroads for what seemed like ages, walking to and fro. His plans for returning the world to the state before his destruction of Arlathan were close to being realized, and yet he could not complete them. His followers pressed him daily, but he refused to answer. His love of Cridhe forbade him to bring destruction to a world in which she lived.

He had recklessly entered into the heart of the Inquisition forces through the Eluvian in Cridhe’s room. His visits there had become more frequent, watching her as she slept or studied. In the last few years, he spent more time in the shadow of her Eluvian than with his agents.

With each visit, his boldness grew until he was stepping forth into her room at night. He would kneel by her bed, watching over her as she slept. He was the shadow in her dreams, unwilling to let her go or let her forget.

He gave in, at last, and decided to visit her in waking hours. His agents informed him of the anniversary ball being held in the Inquisitor’s honor. That was his chance. His plan had been only to watch her, never reveal himself. And, he supposed, he hadn’t, not truly.

But when she began to dance, his yearning pulled him toward her like strings and cables. She hadn’t known it, but she was dancing in the style of Arlathan, and for one blissful moment, he believed that the two of them were the only ones in the world. But even more, he knew in the moments he held her close, the music thrumming between them, that he would only ever be complete if she were with him.

When he had the chance to make himself known to her, however, he faltered. She would not leave the Inquisition, her friends and family. However much she may love him, he knew she would not do that. But to reappear to her, only to be forced to leave again? No, that wouldn’t do, either. So, he left.

Solas cut deep ravines in his mind as he contemplated his choices over and over. Each possible outcome required a sacrifice: his love for Cridhe or his plans for restoring Arlathan.

Gods knew he had tried sacrificing his love and connection to Cridhe since the birth of the Inquisition, some twelve years ago. Somehow, it had only grown deeper roots and sharpened its hold on him. That left him with sacrificing Arlathan.

Such was not an easy decision, despite having done it once before. The guilt he bore was almost as intense as his love for Cridhe. He struggled to reconcile it. He held himself personally responsible for the state of the elves. Every Dalish caravan seeking refuge and scraping out an existence to please long-dead and false gods; every starving child or violated woman in the alienages. It was all his doing, and he felt their pain as keenly as a creator.

In all his travels, he had learned that life has a way of making its course through unknown terrain. When he created the Veil, he rent the known world apart. And yet, millennia later, the world had taken on another life, just as full of vitality. It was wrong, he knew, to be the cause of another world’s demise. But he could not and would not allow the elves to continue to bear the curse of the world’s hatred.

Solas shook his head. The only conclusion he could draw was that he must tell Cridhe how he felt. He could not allow her to linger in his silence any longer, and he hoped against hope that she would forgive him.

Without warning, the crack of electricity snapped. Magical energy suddenly changed the atmosphere, and Solas realized he had wandered far from Cridhe’s Eluvian. He began to run back towards it, when he heard a new, disturbing sound: the splintering of glass. He then realized the sickening sound was coming from her Eluvian.

“No,” he whispered in disbelief.

His eyes widened as he saw the Eluvian’s façade hastily cracking into thousands of shards.

“No!” he screamed, and sprinted towards the Eluvian.

As he grew closer, Solas saw the distorted figure of Cridhe in the Eluvian’s frame. He heard her voice, full of pain and resolve. He was unable to make out her words until he was but a few paces from the Eluvian.

“Go, then. Next we meet, it shall be as enemies. Farewell, Solas.”

His breath went ragged, and the shock drew and quartered him. This couldn’t be happening. When he went to reach out to the face of the Eluvian, his arm could not move. He pushed harder, to no avail, against the arcane force emanating from the Eluvian.

He tried screaming. “Cridhe, please! Wait, vhenan!”

His pleas were drowned out by her scream. The Eluvian was unable to bear the pressure of Cridhe’s anguish, which she potently infused into her magic. There was a flash of blue light, an intense pull, and then a great force that sent Solas flying backward several yards. The enchanted mirror was broken.

He gathered himself up, and hobbled to the shattered Eluvian. Its frame was dark, closed off forever to its mate. Solas shook his head in incredulity.

“No,” he whispered.

“No, no, no, no, _no!_ ” His voice grew louder until he was shouting.

Movement caught his eye. He bent down and picked up one of the broken shards of the Eluvian. A ghostly image of Cridhe’s eyes stared back at him. Her eyebrows were knit together in confusion. Tears poured forth, agony etched in the brilliant blue irises.

He fell to his knees and wept silent, racking sobs.

He was too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *“You lied to me! You are my longing and lost love that I will never know.”  
> †“You do nothing to further our people! You are on the path that leads astray. You will learn, soon.” (Loose translation.)


	3. Chapter 3

**_III_ **

****

Cullen feverishly paced the carpet of the inner corridor leading to Cridhe’s bedchamber. The guards posted watched him anxiously, unused to seeing their commanding officer so disturbed. His agitation only confirmed their own ill feelings.

The tips of Cullen’s fingers buzzed with nervous energy. How many times had he seen himself in the last three days bursting through that last door, running up the stairs? Yet he hadn’t. What would he find? The broken figure of Cridhe lay before him, and he gnashed his teeth and shook his head to clear the vision.

He stopped moving and looked around. Something felt different; it was not premonition or tension, but something more tangible. The hairs on his arms rose, and he felt the change of atmospheric pressure roll down his neck. He looked at the two guards. Their eyes were wide in terror.

“Sir…?” One guard began.

“Find Magister Pavus, _now!”_

Suddenly, a great snap of electricity broke the air. All three men instinctively ducked. Cullen stared above them at the rafters. Something rippled in the air, bending light and shadow, but nothing of substance upon which his eyes could settle.

The guards did not wait a second longer and ran past the Commander. Crouching, Cullen made for the door to the bedchamber. He tried the handle, but it was locked. Another crack sounded above his head, louder than before. Cullen went to try the lock again, frantically, but found it to be scalding hot.

“Dammit!” He yelled.

Cullen backed a few paces then ran into the door with all the strength he could muster. As soon as his shoulder hit the door, a jolt of arcane power sent him flying backward. The recoil of disturbed energy snapped the air like a whip.

Cullen stared at the door. “Maker, please,” he begged. Tears began to gather in his eyes, helpless to the onslaught of terrifying thoughts of what was happening to Cridhe. He gathered himself up for one more desperate try at the door, but found he could not make his way toward it. He was mired, as if in a bog, as he pushed against the unseen force.

The snaps of electricity came more frequently until they were on top of one another. White veins of pure magic coursed their way above his head against the rafters, spreading out a like an insatiable vine. Time seemed to slow to an unbearable crawl. Cullen’s limbs moved in such terribly slow fatigue, while his mind raced. _This is how she dies_ , he thought. _Alone in her room and me this close._

He heard a door slam open far behind him.

“Andraste’s burning _ass!_ Cullen, hold on!” Dorian cried.

Cullen could not turn or speak to acknowledge Dorian’s presence, but he quietly gave thanks. He felt an odd sensation of hot and cold static as Dorian worked to contain the feral magic coming from Cridhe’s room.

Suddenly, there was a great whooshing sound, like the inhalation of breath, and Cullen became suspended in the air. Then a scream pierced the air and sent him flying back into the stone. The glow from the magic veins grew until it was blinding, and the charged air crushed Cullen until he thought he would suffocate.

And as quickly it began, it stopped.

Dorian ran to Cullen. “Are you alright, man? I have never seen such a thing in my life!”

Cullen grimaced and coughed, trying to draw more air into his lungs. “Cridhe,” he managed.

“Of course! Up you go,” Dorian grunted as he helped to heave Cullen up onto his feet. With an arm slung around the magister, Cullen hobbled until he regained his steadiness. He grabbed the door handle, not caring if it lit his hand on fire, but it was cool. It was still locked, however.

“Allow me,” Dorian waved his hand over the door, and there was a satisfying click of the lock giving way.

Cullen pulled away from Dorian, steeling himself for what he might find up the stairs. The guards came timidly up behind him.

“Commander, we’re here. Shall we go get more guards? There are a few more just outside.”

Cullen nodded. “Yes, go fetch them.”

The guards hurried out the door once more.

Dorian turned Cullen to face him. “Cullen, look at me.”

Reluctantly, Cullen turned his honey-brown eyes to look at Dorian. Dorian felt a wave of pity.

“You could have done nothing, _nothing,_ ” he emphasized as Cullen scoffed. “This was a raw, ancient magic as nothing I have ever seen. It was unwieldy, as if who or what was causing it was trying it on for the first time. Despite that, it was more powerful than that of the most experienced mages I know.”

“I could have tried going in there _days_ sooner,” Cullen retorted. “Magic or not, I wasted time. And if she is dead, I will blame myself for all eternity. Let’s go,” Cullen said, cutting off any further comments from Dorian.

He pulled the door open. The air was still charged here, but less potent. Wherever the magic came from, it was receding.

Cullen took a steadying breath then charged up the stairs, with Dorian on his heels. Rounding the stone partition at the top of the stairs, Cullen saw the crumpled form of Cridhe. She looked as if she had been tossed there, cast aside like a doll. He ran to her, hands hovering above her body, not sure where or how to touch her. Then, he saw the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

He uttered a cry of sheer relief then gingerly gathered her into his arms. She possessed no marks of abuse or injury as far as he could tell, as his eyes roved her face and body. Still dressed in the gown from the ball, she looked very much the same as the night he left her, save for dark circles under her eyes.

Cradling her, he brought her head up to his shoulder and rocked her. “Cridhe,” he whispered.

When she did not stir, he tried a little louder, “Cridhe.”

She shifted a bit in his arms, and her eyes fluttered.

“Cullen?” Her voice croaked, as if it had been overused or not used enough. “Cullen!” She asked, her voice stronger and full of recognition.

She wrapped her arms around him, tightly, and buried her face in the crook of his neck, which was soon baptized in the wet warmth of tears.

The guards came running up the stairs.

“One of you, send for Ellanin, immediately!” Cullen ordered.

“Yes, sir!” saluted one of the guards.

“Wait,” Cridhe coughed.

“Yes, my Lady?” The guard paused.

“Please tell Ellanin to bring a wash tub. Oh, and refreshments. Gods, I could use a spot of ale and some food.”

She ran a hand through her hair and drank in the light of day. She felt an odd sensation of utter exhaustion and renewed vitality.

“Cridhe?” Cullen asked, gently touching her cheek. He was worried she was completely addled.

“Mmm?”

“What in Andraste’s name happened? We heard the most ungodly noises, and…” He stopped when her face wearily fell.

“Indeed, my dear. I actually broke a sweat trying to stave off whatever was going on behind that door,” Dorian motioned down the stairs.

Cridhe weariness turned to confusion. The only magic she had used was whatever little she possessed to close the Eluvian. Dorian looked rattled, which unnerved her a great deal.

“May I examine you? With the type of magic I witnessed, I want to see how much you were affected, if at all. You have a knack for brushing off colossal encounters with the arcane,” he added.

Cridhe smiled meekly and consented. Dorian spread his hands and hovered them over her and an iridescent glow emanated from them. His brow furrowed.

“Impossible,” he whispered to himself.

“What is it, Dorian?” Cullen asked.

Dorian searched Cridhe’s face, whose confusion mirrored Cullen’s. Whatever he was looking for, Dorian seemed satisfied, then answered.

“It seems our Inquisitor was the source of this magic. I’ve no idea how,” he said to their incredulous faces. “But I know that, once again, Cridhe has managed to surprise me. There is an explanation here, I’m sure, but I’ll not trouble you,” Dorian looked from Cridhe to Cullen, “or _you,_ with figuring it out right now. Rest, my dear friend. You, and your complexion, need it. Terribly.”

Then he left.

Cridhe hesitantly turned to look up at Cullen, not wanting to discuss Dorian’s unsettling observation, but she softened when their eyes met. He stared down at her with such tenderness that she ceased to care about what had occurred in the last few minutes or the last three days. She fell into him.

She nuzzled her face into his neck and held him close. Cullen’s eyes widened in momentary surprise, but held her tightly. “I was beside myself with worry, Cridhe. I am so sorry I didn’t come sooner,” he whispered into her ear.

She sighed. “Time seemed to have stopped, Cullen. I was living both in the past and present, and then…,” she trailed off. “Let us speak of it another time.”

Cullen pulled back to look her fully in the face. She was looking past him, at the Eluvian.

“He’s gone,” Cridhe whispered. Her eyes began to well up with tears, but she blinked them back. Her face darkened, and she cleared her throat, “Solas is gone. He is now the declared enemy of the Inquisition and of Thedas.”

Cullen saw the ripe anger in her eyes and swallowed. A breath of uneasiness passed through him.

“Here,” he offered, “let’s get you on the bed.” He hoisted them to their feet and helped her settle.

“Thank you, Cullen,” her weariness returned as she lay down and sank into the cushion.

Cullen sat down beside her. Cride closed her eyes, and her breathing became more even. His thumb circled her palm as he held her hand. Her face lost some of the tension it had held when she made her declaration, and he thought she had begun to slip off into sleep. He began to rise to leave, when he felt a gentle tug.

“Cullen, please don’t leave.” She spoke softly, without demand.

He nodded, and sat back down, closer to her.

She rolled to her side, away from the Eluvian, and cradled the bulk of his upright body in the hollow of her stomach. Her hair spilled across her cheek, covering her face. He brushed the white locks behind her ear and saw tears pooling in the corner of her eye.

Cullen gently lowered himself down to the floor and crouched to look into Cridhe’s eyes.

“I’ll never leave you, Cridhe. If that is what you wish,” he whispered.

Cridhe had been staring off into the dazzling light, but her gaze shifted to stare into the comforting warmth of Cullen’s honey-brown eyes. As the words she so desperately wanted to say ebbed on her tongue, the screech of the door and drum of feet broke her thoughts.

“My lady, I have arranged for the hot water kettles to be brought up to draw your bath. Here are your refreshments,” Ellanin announced.

Two guards appeared behind her, waiting for additional orders.

Cullen made no move.

“Thank you, Ellanin.” Then, quietly to Cullen, Cridhe whispered, “Go for now. I’ll send for you once I’ve freshened up a bit. There is much I wish to discuss with you.”

Reluctantly, Cullen nodded and stood.

“Gentlemen,” Cridhe ordered, and the guards snapped to attention, “Take this Eluvian and find the darkest corner of the most forgotten storage room you can find to keep it. Cover it, though. I want the knowledge of its existence lost. Report to me when you are done.”

“Yes, Inquisitor. Right away.”

“Here is the wash tub, Inquisitor,” Ellanin said. “Commander, if you don’t mind…” she began.

“Of course, Ellanin.” Cullen stood. “I’ll be just below, whenever you’re ready, my dear.”

Cridhe nodded gratefully. She watched, regretfully, as he made his way down the stairs.

“My Lady, would you like some assistance?”

Cridhe groaned as she stood. “Yes, I believe I would, Ellanin. My thanks,” she said as Ellanin began to help unfasten her dress.

Her joints ached from the contradicting combination of disuse and the intensity of emotionally charged magic. Ellanin took the dress and made a comment about having it washed and mended. Cridhe nodded absently, her focus on the steam rising from the washtub. She suddenly remembered an elixir Dorian had given her some time ago, one that eased the body with oils and soothed the mind with its perfume. She stood and went to her desk and rummaged until she found it.

Ellanin had nearly filled the tub. “Be careful, my Lady, you’ll scald if you don’t let it cool.”

Cridhe nodded as she poured in an ample amount of the elixir. She watched as the oils floated and pooled on the surface of the water. She inhaled the sharp scent of pine needles and sighed as it faded into the sweet floral aroma of jasmine.

“Do you require anything else, Inquisitor?” Ellanin asked.

“No, Ellanin. Thank you, truly,” Cridhe responded.

“Of course, my Lady. I can send the Commander up if you’d like?”

“In about half an hour or so. We can get rid of the tub then, as well. If the guards I sent with the Eluvian return, tell them to wait by the door. I’ll call them up when I’ve finished my bath.”

“Very good, my Lady,” Ellanin said then left.

Cridhe dipped her long fingers into the water and slightly winced at the heat. “Perfect.”

She removed her underclothes and slowly lowered herself into the still steaming water. The heat pulled her down until she submerged herself completely. She held her breath, suspended in the warmth and the feeling of a great weight gone hollow.

She broke the water’s surface, relishing the cold air from an open window that hit her face. Her fatigue had settled deeply, but there was much she wished to do before she slept; namely, eat, drink, and speak with Cullen.

Feeling relaxed, she scrubbed her body, from scalp to toes, until she felt the last three days had been sufficiently removed. She stood, dried herself off and her thick hair out as best she could, and dressed herself in a sleeveless chemise and robe. She spied the food Ellanin and brought up, and her stomach growled ferociously in response.

Cridhe had nearly finished the last of her food when she heard a pounding on the door below. “Come in,” she called.

Two guards appeared.

“We have packed away the mirror, Your Worship.”

She swallowed her bite of food. “Thank you, gentlemen. Whereabouts did you stow it?”

The stouter guard spoke up, “In the closet of the third spare room beneath the main floor. It has been wrapped in cloth, placed against the wall, and we set several items in front of it. You’d never know it was there.”

Cridhe stared in the distance for a moment, then nodded, curtly. “Thank you, Corporal. You’ve both done well.”

The two guards straightened proudly.

“I must swear you two to secrecy. No one must know the location of this Eluvian.” She eyed them sharply.

They glanced at each other and then nodded vehemently. “Of course, Your Worship. Of course!”

She nodded, satisfied. “See Commander Rutherford for a reward for your troubles. And once you have, please send him here.”

“Yes, Your Worship!”

They each saluted her and made haste to do her bidding.

Cridhe stood by the fire, her back to the stairs. She had gone quite cold again, losing the effect of the bath. She absently rubbed her arms, enjoying the feel of the linen against her skin. Her hair was nearly dry and fell in great, loose curls down her back.

Caught in a reverie, she began to hum an old Dalish tune. She didn’t hear the door below open.

“Cridhe,” a soft voice spoke behind her.

She didn’t startle at the sound.

“Cullen,” she smiled and turned to face him.

She drank him in. Concern still creased his face, but his posture looked relaxed. His skin took on a warm hue in the firelight. Despite herself, she reached out and touched his face. His stubble tickled her palm. He closed his eyes and turned his face into her hand. She traced the scar across his upper lip and realized she had no idea where he got it.

He opened his eyes and stared deeply into hers. The fidelity in them, that fidelity she did not deserve, abruptly pierced her. Her eyes prickled with tears, and she felt such a heartrending amalgam of rapture and lament that her breath caught in her throat. The thrill of anticipation drew her a step closer to him, but the guilt of lost years held her in place.

She cast her gaze down, and the tears spilled down her cheeks. “Ir abelas, vhenan,” she whispered. “Cullen, I am so sorry for my folly. The years I’ve  
wasted—”

He shook his head and pulled her to him. He cupped his hands around her face, forcing her to look into his eyes once more. Their intensity caused her to keep silent. He bent down and his lips brushed her once, twice then captured her fully with an earnestness that melded longing and forgiveness.

As soon as the guards announced Cridhe’s request for his presence, Cullen rushed to her chambers. He eased the last door opened, expecting to hear her call of acknowledgement. Instead, he heard a faint melody. When he reached the top of the stairs, he saw her by the fire. His breath caught in his throat.

Her graceful figure was bound in the soft linens of a chemise and robe. Her hair cascaded freely in curls drenched in the orange and yellow hues of the fire. He made his way toward her, though he was unaware of moving at all. When he was just a step away he stopped. The sweet, rich scent of jasmine greeted him, and he very nearly came undone.

“Cridhe,” he murmured.

She turned to him and smiled as she spoke his name. She didn’t move, just stared at him. Suddenly, she reached out and placed a warm hand against his cheek.

Since the night of the anniversary ball, he had longed to feel this again, to feel her touch and forget all else. There was such tenderness in her hand that caused him to seek her more. He closed his eyes and turned his lips toward her palm, inhaling the sweet perfume of her skin. He felt her fingers trace his scar, and he began to lose himself in her exploration. Before he lost himself completely, he opened his eyes and stared into hers. He saw the childlike vulnerability that bound him to her only.

Cridhe’s pale blue eyes glistened in the light, and tears made tracks down her cheeks.

“Ir abelas, vhenan,” she breathed. “Cullen, I am so sorry for my folly. The years I’ve wasted—”

No, he would not hear an apology. He could have chosen to move on after the defeat of Corypheus, but he chose to stay. He had acknowledged years ago that he was not a man built to hold the weight of infatuations and countless lovers. He had never waited for her to love him, but rather, he had chosen to love her from a distance. He knew to try and find another woman, marry, and have children would only be an attempt at ridding himself of Cridhe’s memory, and such an attempt was unfair to a hypothetical family. And, he had reasoned, if he could not love her in the way in which he wanted, he would put the frustration of that unmet desire in serving the Inquisition.

No, he would not listen to her apologize.

Instead, he kissed her with the fervor of years spent wanting and hoping.


	4. Chapter 4

**_IV_ **

****

Dorian rushed to the Inquisition’s library when he left Cridhe’s rooms. Books, especially old ones, had always brought him comfort. He was hoping they would do so again and provide some of the answers he was desperately seeking.

“Elvhen magic? Trauma-related magical accidents? What to look for?” he murmured to himself.

His finger moved along the book spines like a divining rod searching for water.

“May I assist you, Magister Pavus?” The monotone female voice startled him.

“What? Oh, no. Er, wait,” Dorian stopped himself. “What is your specialty?”

“My research is primarily in ancient Elvhen lore and early magic of the Dalish.”

“Hmm, perhaps you can help. Do you know how powerful pre-Dalish elves were, in terms of magic?”

“The elves of Arlathan were particularly powerful in dimensional magic. Recent publications support the theory that there was no Veil separating spirit and corporeal dimensions. If this theory is true, Arlathanian elves could create a bond between the dimensions, allowing them to have control over what many consider obstacles, such as travel and death.”

“The Eluvians,” Dorian said more to himself. Then he sputtered, “I’m sorry, did you just say, ‘death?’”

“Yes,” the Tranquil continued. “It is a commonly held belief that the ancient Elvhen were immortal. As you said first, however, the Eluvians are the best evidence of such a theory because there are some that remain intact. It is believed that those who employ the Eluvians experience a phenomena called, ‘The Arlathanian Paradox.’”

“What is that?” Dorian asked when she paused.

“The Arlathanian Paradox occurs when an individual inhabits both spirit and corporeal forms simultaneously yet separately. Eluvians are the only known means to create the Arlathanian Paradox.”

Dorian stared at her for a moment then rolled his eyes. “My dear, you must get out of the library more.”

“I cannot. My purpose is to serve scholars and guests, such as yourse— ”

Dorian waved his hand, annoyed, but pity for the Tranquil’s state softened his retort. “I meant… You know what? Never mind. Do you have articles, books, anything about the sudden onset of magic in adulthood?”

“Yes. Follow me, if you please.”

She led him to a darkened corner of the library and began pulling scrolls and books from shelves and drawers. When he had a hefty number of them, he thanked her and set off for his former nook. The hint of a wistful smile notched in the corners of his mouth as he remembered the time spent here when he was a formal part of the Inquisition. The happy memory faded into a scowl of disturbing premonition as Dorian began perusing through the reading material. The image of his dear friend’s ashen face and the stinging intensity of the magic she bore weighed heavily in his mind.

After several hours, he stood, stiffly. In truth, he was nowhere near discovering the answers for which he was searching, but he felt he had begun to pluck out key pieces to the puzzle. They did not bode well.

From what he knew of Cridhe’s past, she was the last living Arlathanian elf. Her mother, along with her unborn child, should have dissolved into a flurry of arcane mist as soon as she woke from the spell. Time magic was tricky, but there were certain laws that could not be altered. And yet Cridhe thrived. Her entire existence defied the basic laws of nature. Dorian wondered if her mother’s disappearance was simply that she faded, erased from the corporeal world by a longing for her home.

His thoughts returned to Cridhe and what element made her different. Then revelation struck him like a whip: she was conceived in Arlathan, and birthed in the modern era. That must hold a powerful magic, but to be suspended in time _for millennia_ , under a great spell… He balked at the thought.

Though his speculations were purely conjecture, he felt certain there had to be some truth to them. She had been able to light fires with a flick of her wrist and open locked doors without tools during his time in the Inquisition, but she had always brushed them off as “very useful parlor tricks.” Her true magical potential must have lain dormant until released by an effective trigger: a broken heart. He hurt for his dear friend; such an intense inaugural use of her magic meant it would always have a flavor of sadness.

If his assumptions were correct, had the amount of magical potential she possessed unlocked earlier, she could have snapped her fingers in Corypheus’s face and left nothing but a vapor. He shivered at the thought.

The other piece to the mystery that worried him even more was the masked elf at the anniversary ball. No one was saying anything with confidence, but it was widely whispered that it was Solas himself. If that were indeed true, Maker’s breath… He could only imagine the possible machinations of that traitorous bastard and how Cridhe fit into them.

Dorian gathered his notes, and made for the spymaster’s quarters.

///

“Leliana? May I speak to you for a moment?” Dorian asked in hushed tones.

“Of course, Magister Pavus,” she replied. She stopped short when she noticed Dorian’s perturbed expression. “Is everything alright?”

Dorian nodded. “Something quite strange is going on. I’m not one to let others see my feathers ruffled, but I’m beginning to fear for the Inquisitor’s safety.”

Leliana made a motion for him to lower his voice. “Come.”

She led them out on the balcony, and closed the door behind her.

“What makes you say this?” Her voice was soft, but urgent.

“I’m not sure what sort of debriefing you’ve received, if any, but there was an ungodly amount of arcane force coming from Cridhe’s room just before anyone entered since the ball. In fact, Cullen was trying to claw his way in, but magic as I have never seen held him back. It took nearly all my strength to hold it at bay.”

Leliana’s brow furrowed, but she said nothing.

“And after a horrendous scream, which I presume came from the Inquisitor herself, the magic sucked itself back from whence it came.”

“And do you know its source?”

Dorian had been looking out over Skyhold during the conversation, but he turned a keen and worried eye on Leliana. “The Inquisitor.”

Her eyebrows raised. “No,” she whispered.

“She is no mage, and that amount of magic should have rent her to pieces. I’ve spent the entire time in the library since leaving her chambers this morning. I’ve only left to come here,” he ran his fingers through his hair. “Which brings me to my purpose for seeking you out. Have you heard any rumors of Solas?”

“Solas?” Her voice hitched higher in further surprise.

He nodded.

She sighed. “Nothing of certainty. He is believed to be the masked stranger that danced with the Inquisitor at the ball, but I have been unable to confirm this.”

Dorian faced her. “What does your instinct tell you?”

“That it was indeed him.”

He clenched his teeth and nodded. “I believe so, too.”

They were quiet for a long time. Nothing disturbed the air, but the occasional caw of Leliana’s carrier ravens.

Dorian broke the silence, his voice sharp with emotion. “I just can’t imagine why! Unless he’s figured out how much magical potential she possesses, and he needs her as some sort of foci to bring on the apocalypse.”

The thought was terrifying, but Dorian found his ire was founded on his love of Cridhe. How dare the insolent elf break her heart then use her to bring her (and every other being in the known world) to ruin!

“Or he is still in love with her.” Leliana’s voice was almost plaintive.

He spun around at her. “You’re mad!”

She chuckled cynically. “Perhaps. But love has a way of making you do, or not do, things.”

He eyed her more contemplatively. “You sound as if you know from experience.”  
  
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Perhaps.”

Dorian considered this angle. It’s possible, he supposed, but how cliché. Too cowardly to tell the girl how you felt because of your prior commitment to world destruction? Even Varric wouldn’t write something that grotesque for the masses.

No, Solas had need of Cridhe for some nefarious purpose, Dorian was sure, and he was determined to not allow such plans come to pass.

///

A collective gasp erupted when Cridhe emerged from the outer door of her chambers into the main hall. She looked fine, but there was something new about her. She held herself more openly; the years of guarded interaction seemed to have come off like a mantle. She also glowed. Her smile was one that looked like a lifelong slave’s sentence had been commuted. Her eyes snapped with blue sparks, robbing anyone who looked her fully in the face of speech. Varric was the first to comment.

“Whatever you’ve been doing the last three days, I want in.”

Cridhe shook her head. “Whatever do you mean, Varric?”

“You’re visibly different. Maker, I hope you didn’t do some blood magic ritual.”

“What?” Her voice rose an octave.

“I was jesting. But truly, you look like you either went a bath house for a fortnight or have been wrangled in bed by a human stallion,” Varric suddenly turned his gaze to Cullen, who had emerged from her chambers with her.

Iron Bull’s voice edged, “Stallion’s don’t have horns, Varric. But don’t look at me; I haven’t had the pleasure with the Inquisitor.” He winked at Cridhe, who was turning shades of amaranthine. “Hey,” he took another cue from Varric and turned his insinuations to Cullen. “Where have _you_ been, Commander?”

Cullen, who, under normal circumstances, would have vibrated with embarrassment, turned an icy stare to the two men. His tone, though low enough for only them to hear, skewered their laughter. “You have _no_ clue what has transpired.”

“Well, no, we don’t, Cullen. What in the hell exactly did transpire?” Bull’s shock bristled into challenge.

Cridhe intervened. Her face was sharp and her voice, though low, sharper. “Hush! All of you,” her eyes surveyed the room, looking for people overly interested in their conversation. “Meet us in the War Room in five minutes.”

At a louder volume, she laughed coyly. “Why, Varric and Bull! I’m surprised at both of you. For a spymaster and former Ben-Hassrath, you forget to employ basic deductive reasoning.”

The two men looked quizzically at each other. “If I was in the throes of passion for three full days, as you suggest, then I would be utterly unable to walk.”

At that, she turned on her heel and made for Josephine’s office, leaving half the main hall scandalized, and Bull’s thundering laugh echoing behind her.

///

Once every one of import was assembled in the War Room, Cridhe debriefed them. She struggled to maintain her blush of embarrassment over what would otherwise seem to be the actions of a lovesick juvenile.

She struggled to begin and avoided eye contact with anyone. “Well, I suppose I should tell you what happened after my abrupt departure from the ball the other night.”

Josephine leaned forward. Leliana cocked an ear. Cassandra crossed her arms. Sera groaned. Varric shrugged. Iron Bull rubbed his hands together. Dorian rolled his eyes in sarcastic fashion. Cullen braced himself for his second time hearing the story.

Cridhe inwardly cringed at their reactions. “Yes, the masked elf was significant. I’ve gathered there’s been a lot of speculation as to who he was.” She paused.

“Well?” Cassandra’s voice cut the anticipatory silence.

“It was Solas.”

There was a collective inhalation of breath.

She continued, “Now, he did not harm me.” She looked down, her voice a shade quieter, “He didn’t even approach me.”

She shook her head and sighed before continuing. “As I’m sure most, if not all of you know, there was something between Solas and I when he was in the Inquisition.” She paused, waiting for a snide remark from Dorian or Bull, but none came. “I had hoped that such feelings that had once passed between us remained; that they were strong enough to reach Solas and steer his course away from the annihilation of Thedas.

“I was wrong. Why he appeared here, I can only guess. He left no mark upon me, save for utter incredulity. I can say for certain, the only magic he employed was entering and exiting Skyhold through the Eluvian.”

She began to pace in front of the windows, glancing out at the mountains. “For the three days I remained alone in my room, I purged myself of Solas’s memory and any romantic,” she smirked, “or amicable feelings. At the end of it, I broke the Eluvian by magical means.”

She turned back to the gathered party, her hands grasped behind her back in a stance of resolution and formality. “I suffered nothing, save the loss of sleep and a hungry belly. I will have you all know now, however, that Solas the Elvhen is the declared enemy of the Inquisition. Indeed, of all Thedas.”

The faces present hardened, some in acknowledgement, some in resignation.

“Josephine, please send formal letters of our decision to all the heads of state. Leliana, our efforts to seek out Solas and his agents must begin internally. If I were a pauper, I would bet every worldly possession I had that we have more than our fair share.

“Bull?”

“Yeah, boss?”

“I know you no longer have ties to the Ben-Hassrath, but whatever connections to intelligence sources you still possess, find me something.”

“You got it, boss.” His eye reflected such a darkness that Cridhe flicked her gaze away from him.

“Sera, whatever help the Red Jennies can offer,” she began.

“Right. I never did like that elfy shitehead.”

“Varric, if you can use any means necessary, as well, to garner us a lead or, or anything,” she began to falter. The reality of treating Solas as a threat, cut off from her hope and, however minimal, her protection was beginning to set in.

“Of course, Inquisitor.”

“Dorian, the same for you within or outside of the Magisterium.”

“You had but to say the word, my dear Inquisitor,” Dorian bowed his head.

She nodded, felt satisfied with each response, and thankful for their presence.

“I’ll send dispatches when we need to reconvene. For now, please enjoy each other’s company,” Cassandra and Varric cast wary looks at each other, “at the Inquisition’s expense.”

Iron Bull pounded his hand on the table in stout approval. He immediately left, while the others mingled.

Cridhe sighed heavily and turned back to gaze out to the snow-capped mountains reflecting the last of the day’s sun. Weariness of duty, of making decisions that attributed so much or so little value to the lives of others grated on her. As the intangible weight threatened to break her shoulders, two gentle hands took hold of her arms.

“Are you alright, my dear?” Cullen’s low voice sent a roll of shivers down her spine.

She patted one of his hands and leaned into him. “I will be. Knowing you’re here helps to ease this wretched burden.”

He squeezed her arms in tender acknowledgement then released her.

“I hate to intrude on this sweet moment, but may I speak with you a moment, my dear?”

Dorian’s voice surprised Cridhe.

“Oh, Dorian! Of course.” Quietly, to Cullen, she said, “Meet me in my chambers. There is much I wish to say.”

Cullen nodded, first to Cridhe, then to Dorian, and left.

Cridhe turned a winsome smile on Dorian. “What can I do for you, my favored friend?”

He returned the smile, but melancholy pulled at the corners of his mouth.

“I wanted to speak with you about,” he began then shook his head. “Cridhe, I’m very worried about you.” Her brow creased with perplexity, and he continued, “The amount of magic you conjured was monumental, even for a highly experienced mage. I spent the entire day in the library, racking research and my own knowledge for an explanation for what I saw today, and the conclusion I’ve drawn is not comforting.”

She exhaled, nervous for him to resume. “What are you saying, Dorian?”

“I don’t think you’re going to spontaneously combust or something so dramatic. You were conceived in the last days of Arlathan, were you not?”

She nodded.

“And born in this era?”

“That’s right.”

“You are a melding of millennia, sustained by a powerful spell. Magic related to time is tricky, if you remember Inquisitor Ameridan’s own confession.”

“Mmm,” she remembered the ancient elf body’s immediate demise upon release of his spirit. “I do.”

“Being created in one time and then being birthed into another, ages later? My hypothesis is that you possess an indelible amount of magic and are somehow immune to time.”

The breath caught in her throat, utterly disbelieving.

Dorian continued, “Humans have never possessed that level of magic. I don’t presume to know the ability of your mage father, but even if he was the Maker Himself, you should not have survived. However, it could have to do with him, and your mother, for that fact, being Elvhen. Your mother’s disappearance, I believe, is the unexplainable slowed result of time catching up to her. I say ‘unexplainable’ because I think she still should have expired upon waking from the sleeping spell.

“But you? You have continued on as if nothing has happened. I’ve known you for more than a decade. Frankly, my dear, even if you followed Vivienne’s beauty regimen, you should still look as haggard as Cabot the bartender. The only effect I see is one that is the envy of all mortals: you don’t age. I would go so far as to guess that you are, in fact, _immortal_.”

Cridhe’s distress rose from her chest so that she clutched her neck to keep it stable. “Dorian, this is absurd!” she whispered.

“Why? Cridhe, you forget the last twelve years have been absurd! A darkspawn magister? Stopping civil war in Orlais? An elf bent on recreating a past civilization? Do I need to go on?”

She groaned until she felt a scream brewing. “Dorian, what does this mean?”

“I honestly don’t know. You’re not dead, so I take that as a good omen. What I worry about,” he hesitated, “is why Solas was here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” he hesitated, “what if he has figured out your magical capabilities? Though I do not know for certain, he could use you as a foci, or some means to draw on your power to make his crazy scheme come to pass. I will _not_ allow it, Cridhe.”

She recoiled. The suggestion stung, bitterly. Was Solas capable of such a betrayal? Gods, the thought made her stomach lurch and her indignation roil. Perhaps that’s why he came to the ball, to steal her away. But then, why did he leave her and abandon the perfect opportunity to take her?

She exhaled a weary sigh, and gave him a weak smile. “Thank you, Dorian. I will think on all of this. I pray some of it isn’t true.”

“I know,” he gathered her into his arms and held her close as she took a ragged, tear-stifling breath. “I hope even he is not capable of inflicting such pain.”

_Did he ever truly love me?_ The thought began to reopen her healing wound, and then Dorian blessed her with a bright notion.

“You may not be able to forget those your heart has loved, but remember who is still at your side, Cridhe. There’s a man, upstairs in your bedroom, I’d wager, waiting for you.” Dorian’s voice was soft with encouragement.

Cridhe smiled and nodded, thoughts of betrayal subsiding.

“Now, get up there and show him just how much his patience has been rewarded!” Dorian lost all tenderness and fell into his usual bawdy self.

She laughed and hugged her dearest friend tightly. “Oh Dorian, whatever would I do without you?”

“Become whatever the immortal equivalent is of an old maid. Or remain a virgin. I shudder at the thought of either,” he said above her mock exclaims of outrage and pushed her out the door.

///

Cridhe found Cullen staring into the blaze of the fire, chin on his folded hands. She studied his profile: the strong, set jaw, high forehead, prominent nose, and full mouth. He often looked deep in thought, as he did now, and whether he was strategizing or worrying, she could rarely tell.

She moved quietly toward him, drawn to the strength he possessed that never seemed to diminish. He turned and smiled at her.

He held out his hand, “I had Ellanin bring up some refreshments. What did Dorian have to say?”

A shadow flickered over her expression, and she shook her head. “We’ll talk of that later. Tonight, there is something very different I wish to discuss.”

“Oh? Alright, and what would that be?”

She took a goblet of wine and settled into the crook of his arm, and after taking a sip, asked nonchalantly, “Have you ever been in love?”

He turned to look at her, a somewhat baffled expression lighting his face. “Is this a trick question?”

She laughed, “No, not at all.” She added in a softer tone, “You know I’ve been, and with whom, for that matter. I’m curious about you.”

Cullen settled back and pulled her closer, a little bemused by this turn of conversation. “Before you? I don’t know if I’d call it love, but I did have feelings for someone when I was young.”

“Who was she?” Cridhe’s interest was piqued. 

“A mage.”

Cridhe sat up and stared at him. “No!”

Cullen nodded and laughed.

She egged him on. “Truly? The Cullen I know is wary of all things arcane.”

“Mm-hmm.” He nodded. “This was a very different Cullen,” his voice took on a hint of sobriety. “It was my first post as a Templar, at the Circle of Magi.”

“Before the incident with blood mages?”

He nodded again.

Cridhe nestled back into him. “What was she like?”

“Not unlike you, truthfully. She was humble, practical, kind. And very beautiful.”

Cridhe listened to the crackle of the fire and attempted to conjure this young woman in her mind’s eye. “What did she look like?”

“Oh, she had long red hair, the sort that shines copper in the sunlight. Green eyes. A smile that could light up a room.”

“And her name?”

Cullen half-smiled. “Vienne.” He pronounced the name with reverence.

Her brow furrowed in thought; the name was not common, but she had heard it somewhere before.

“Vienne was an apprentice when I met her. She was kind to everyone, including me. I was wary of mages, of course, because of our training, but she was so different from what I had expected.

“We formed a friendship of sorts, but then I was chosen as the presiding Templar for her Harrowing. If she didn’t withstand the trial, then I was to execute her on the spot.”

“How grim,” she said and sat down her goblet.

“Indeed. I hated the thought of having to take her life, even for the sake of others’ safety. I sought to be removed from that duty, but Knight-Commander Greagoir said it would cure me of any more inappropriate feelings.” He shook his head before continuing. “It didn’t.”

Cridhe ran her finger in an outline of Cullen’s hand.

“She survived, and then became my ward. I tried not too hard to consider it, but more than once I thought about what sort of relationship could bloom between us. But,” he laughed, “before _anything_ could happen she was recruited to become a Grey Warden. And did pretty well at it, as I understand it. Saved all of Ferelden from the Fifth Blight.”

Cridhe stopped and bolted upright. “Wait. You’re not talking about _Queen_ Vienne, are you? The Hero of Ferelden?”

Cullen nodded. “I am.”

She sat up and shoved him back in utter disbelief and mock offense. “Cullen! Why did I not know this sooner?”

He grinned and shrugged. “Well, it has been over twenty years ago. You’re not jealous, are you?”

He pulled her down into his arms and gazed at her full mouth in a feigned pout.

“Queen or not,” he said, his voice growing husky, “I did not know what adoration was until I met you.”

Cridhe ran her fingers down the stubble that flecked his jaw. He leaned in to kiss her, but stopped when their lips were but a whisper apart. Her expression had grown serious. The years expanded and contracted in her memory, and she shook her head and earnestly looked into his eyes.

“So much time has gone by since then, Cullen. How will I ever make it up to you?”

He smiled and murmured, “Marry me.”


End file.
